


the mortifying ordeal of being known

by elicul



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Canon Universe, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, POV Ron Weasley, Recreational Drug Use, more a crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicul/pseuds/elicul
Summary: Ron is struggling, and though he knows he's not alone, sometimes it feels that way.“I’m sorry. I know it’s late.” Ron can hear the whine in his voice. He knows how small he sounds, knows that his voice betrays everything his family believes in. He hasn’t felt brave in a long while. “I just...” he continues cautiously. “I’m looking for something... to help.”“Help with what?”“Please, George.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from this essay: https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/15/i-know-what-you-think-of-me/?hp
> 
> though i imagine the essayist would be mortified to know i used a line he'd written as a title for my hp fanfic. don't tell him, yeah?

No one is cut out for being fifteen. And, yet, there have been countless people who have aged fifteen years, survived it, and gone on to see their sixteenth birthday. Ron Weasley is not sure he’s going to be one of these people. Wizards, on a whole, live longer than the average muggle; Dumbledore is not necessarily out of the scope of “normal” yet, and he stands about ten times Ron’s age. People do this. They do it all the time. But it’s the middle of the night and still early in the summer before his fifth year and he’s all alone and feeling desperate and scared and, well... Fifteen is sorta kicking Ron’s ass.

He paces the length of his bedroom, only to find it feeling more claustrophobic than usual; smaller, even, than when Harry and the guest cot were sharing the space. Ron needed out. He considered heading out to the shed, going for a night fly around the meadows, clearing his head, but that required him to have the backbone to walk straight through the kitchen, and tonight, he was feeling rather spineless. 

He thought about writing Harry, even got out a quill and a scrap of parchment before being overcome with guilt that he’d hardly written Harry all summer long and what he had sent had been vague and dissatisfactory to his friend, and he felt not at all in the position to be owling for help when Harry was clearly hurt and upset with him. Harry would help anyway, of that Ron is sure, but maybe it’s pride that makes him set down the inked quill on his desk. 

The walls feel like they’re closing in. There’s Ginny, but Ginny’s just a kid. Softer than the rest of them, when she wants to be, but too often sharp-tongued and harsh, it feels like going to her would be too unpredictable of an option. 

There’s Mum. But how pathetic? “Mummy, I know I’m almost of age, but I had a bad dream, can I sleep with you tonight?” The worst part is, Mum would jab her finger in Dad’s back and tell him to roll over and make room, then hoist up the edge of the duvet, and allow Ron to climb right in. And he’s not sure he has the resolve to resist her right now. If Fred and George found him there in the morning? He shudders to think.

Though, Fred and George. Well, maybe not Fred. George had always been the kinder of the two, the more rational, the “practical” side of practical jokers. 

And anyway, Ron suspects George already knows a little. There have been enough spared glances at the dinner table. Nothing’s been said, of course, but sometimes Ron catches George throwing him a wounded glance as Ron stuffs himself full of food, and it’s enough that Ron knows that George knows. Which means Fred might know. But who knows? Maybe George has the decency to keep some things to himself. 

So that’s how Ron finds himself creeping down the stairs in the moments just before day break, going to knock on Fred and George’s door in the hopes of some comfort, or reassurance, or Firewhisky, at least. 

But, of course, in the dull light and the sleepy haze of pre-dawn, when Fred just barely cracks the door open to see who dares disturb his slumber, Ron just starts talking. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late.”

Ron can hear the whine in his voice. He knows how small he sounds, knows that his voice betrays everything his family believes in. He hasn’t felt brave in a long while. 

“I just...” he continues cautiously. “I’m looking for something... to help.”

“Help with what?”

“Please, George.”

Fred nods and disappears back into the room for a moment. It takes everything Ron has not to burst into tears, feeling rejected. He knows his brother is coming back. He knows. But the closed door looks so unbearable in this light. He feels so lonely it’s making him physically cold. 

Fred returns with a balled up jumper in his hands. He jerks his chin up at the stairs towards Ron’s room. The stairs creak beneath their feet, but the Burrow is an entity unto itself, practically alive in its own right, so no one stirs at the noise. 

Ron’s bedroom is well lit. It’s obvious that he hasn’t slept, that he hasn’t even tried to sleep. Self-consciously, Ron tries to clear some clutter off of his bed, but Fred just goes and sits at the foot of it and places the jumper on top of the pile. It’s then that Ron realizes his mistake. 

“Fred-” _I was looking for George, actually,_ goes unsaid. 

“Shh. I know. Here, hold this,” Fred says, holding out the green jumper and looking distractedly at the short glass pipe in his hands. “George is better at this than I am.”

Ron’s not sure if Fred means George is better at dealing with a frantic and miserable little brother, or setting up the green moss-like clumps inside of the pipe. He doesn’t have the energy to ask, though. 

Eventually, Fred fiddles with his supplies enough that he seems pleased with himself. He holds out the pipe and the lighter to Ron, who only raises his eyebrows in question, hesitant to hold out his hand. 

“Muggle stuff,” Fred says in answer. 

“Where’d you get it?”

“Girl down the hill. I think she fancies me. Or maybe Georgie. I’m not sure she even knows we’re two different people, if I’m being honest. Either way, we get it pretty cheap, or so I understand. Muggle money, you know.”

Fred withdraws his hand, lights the end, takes a deep pull, exhales, and passes the pipe to Ron, who just holds it dumbly for a moment. 

“What’ll it do?” He asks.

“Help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, links to essays you've enjoyed reading, and concerns all welcome


	2. Chapter 2

They’re stoned. Ron hears Fred say so a few times. Whatever it is, it’s better than Firewhisky. Ron can’t focus for long enough to feel anything other than wonder. Fred is laid back on the bed staring up at the ceiling when he breaks the silence that feels like it’s been going on since the beginning of time. 

“So, what’s up?” Despite the high, despite the casualness of his words, Fred sounds more serious than he normally does. 

“Hmm?”

“Don’t be thick. You think George and I don’t talk, ever?”

Ron fiddles with a loose thread along the seam of his jeans. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Is it school?” Fred asks. 

Ron shakes his head.

“Witches?”

Ron just looks down at the floor. If he’s being frank, he has no idea what’s the matter with him. He’s just lonely. And sad. A lot. And for no real reason at all. 

“Alright, well is it just run of the mill teenage angst? Or are you, like, not okay?”

Ron shrugs. 

“You’ve got George and Ginny worried.”

“Gin?”

Fred lolls his head to the side so he can look at Ron. “She’s not stupid. We can all see there’s something there, but you won’t talk to me. What do you want me to do? You won’t even talk to George, you know?”

Ron pulls on the jumper he’s been holding because he thinks he might be cold. 

“Is there anything I can do?” It’s the most sincere Fred has ever sounded in so long as Ron can remember. Ron can’t even bear to look up at his older brother for fear that he will disintegrate right before him, tell Fred every insecurity and petty issue he’s ever had his whole life long because he is tired and wants everything out. But in thinking about this, Ron must’ve been silent for long enough that Fred figured he wasn’t getting an answer. 

Fred is quieter when he speaks again. “Does Harry know? Know about... whatever this is, I mean.”

Ron nods.

“Then talk to him, huh?”

“I can’t. I hardly write him anymore because I can’t talk about anything going on around here, and I can’t lie to him, so we just. We haven’t spoken much.”

“We’ll all be at Headquarters soon. Will you talk to him then?”

“I might.”

Fred stands and brings his hand down on Ron’s shoulder maybe a little rougher than he meant to. He gives Ron a quick, but serious look, then wraps up his pipe in the hem of his shirt and heads to the door. “I’m off to bed, feel better, yeah?”

“Sure. Thanks, Fred.”

His brother leaves without another word. Ron shuts off the light by his bed and lies in the darkness, feeling like the world is alive around him, until sleep draws him in. 

 

Ron is scrutinizing his appearance in the bathroom mirror the next morning when Ginny walks by. She turns suddenly into the bathroom, like she’s just remembered she needed to get something from the cabinet, but then stands behind Ron and just sorta looks around. She flexes her hands a few times like she’s looking for something to hold, an excuse for having walked in here. 

“Save it,” Ron says defeatedly, thinking about his conversation with Fred last night. He tears his eyes away from the mirror, throwing a look of hatred at the reflection for just one more second to let it really sink in, before leaving and heading down to breakfast.

 

The Burrow feels more crowded than usual. There are fewer people, even, but everywhere Ron goes, Ginny, or Fred, or Mum are right where he wants to be. It’s as if they are anticipating his every move.

Ron decides to try to grab some lunch and go for a walk. He thinks that maybe George is laying low, trying to give Ron some space. That is, until George comes jogging up alongside Ron as he’s making his way across the grounds after eating the sandwich he made for lunch. 

“Ron, wait up,” George calls. It’s midday about half through July, but not as warm as Ron would like it to be. He’s still wearing long sleeves, but he can see a bit of sweat beginning to stain George’s shirt. They walk in silence over the grassy hills for a long time. Eventually, they begin to approach the Lovegoods’ residence. Ron turns heel as soon as the top of their stone home becomes visible, and heads back to the Burrow. George follows suit. 

On the way back, George tries to keep up some light-hearted conversation, talking about an invention he’s working on with Fred, commenting on the weather, wondering aloud about the upcoming school year, but Ron just keeps his hands in his pockets and his eyes on his trainers. 

At the wood fence that borders the Weasley’s property, Ron realizes he’s a little out of breath from all the hills and decides that sitting with his back against the fencepost for a few minutes is as good a way to spend his time as any. George stands nervously above him for a minute, before sitting down in the tall grass with his brother.

Ron’s breath evens out and George lays back to look up at the lazily passing clouds. Ron wonders what Harry might be up to. He thinks about what he promised Fred. He thinks about talking to George now. He ends up scratching at the back of his hand for so long that the skin is raw as if he’s been burned. He goes inside without another word to George and heads to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, favorite holiday traditions, and concerns all welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

Over breakfast one morning, as Ron picks the crust off his toast for something to do, Mum tells him and his siblings that it’s time to start packing up their things. The Weasley’s are going to be spending the rest of the summer at Headquarters.

The war going on feels distant and unreal. Something to read about in the papers, something to carry conversations over dinner, but not something present and scary. In fact, the idea of staying in the Burrow another minute with no distractions feels more unmanageable than joining the war effort.

It’s been an excruciating few weeks of summer, and though Hermione doesn’t know much about what Ron’s going through, she’s the brightest witch in their year, she’s bound to have noticed something and maybe she can help in that overbearing, Hermione way. Maybe it’ll be better at Headquarters.

Dad’s been coming home later and later from work every night. On the nights he does still manage to make an appearance at the tail end of dinner, he checks up on the kids, asking Ginny if she’s got all her things for the school year squared away, “We won’t be coming back here before start of term. If it’s not in your trunk by the time we leave, you’ll have to go without it until Christmas,” and talking excitedly with Fred and George about some “rather tricky spellwork, indeed.” When Dad’s attention turns to Ron, however, he smiles sadly and says nothing.

Mum comes around with packing lists and begins her yearly chore of charming trousers to grow a few inches longer, or needles to thread themselves and mend tears in old jumpers, just to get one more year of wear out of them. She works her way up the house until she’s on the landing outside Ron’s door, knocking to come in, with a sewing kit hovering at her elbow and her hair a mess of flyaways and her sleeves rolled up. She’s a little worse for wear, but her kids can go back to school looking decent.

“Ron, dearie, I just want to check your uniforms, make sure they’re all sorted for next term, are you decent?” She asks, rapping her knuckle lightly against the door.

Ron startles. Molly Weasley does not knock. Though she also doesn’t necessarily walk in without knocking, she usually just shouts up the stairs from the main floor, she certainly is not known for bestowing privacy upon her seven kids. There’s not enough space, not enough time, not enough patience to try to navigate so many people in such tight quarters. She tried, instead, to just get in and get out as fast as she could.

He opens the door for his mother.

She sets to work. “Sweetheart, can you just pull on your robes and I’ll make any adjustments that need making to the whole lot?”

Ron crosses the room to his pile of clothes, pulling on his uniform.

“Sleeves need lengthening. Do you boys ever stop growing?” Mum mutters to herself. “Could take these trousers in a bit as well. Your robes, too. This growth spurt really thinned you out, Ron.”

Ron’s ears redden, but he says nothing.

 

The Weasleys make it to Headquarters. It’s dark and dusty and not a quarter as homey as the Burrow, but it’s not the Burrow and that’s a blessing in so far as Ron is concerned.

It’s not long before Hermione joins them. She spends her nights sharing a room with Ginny, but much of the days are spent in Ron’s company. Having her around, even when she’s just reading in the cobwebbed light of his bedroom, eases some of the tension in Ron’s chest.

The trouble is, as fond of Hermione as Ron may be, she’s no substitute for his best friend. At night, he misses Harry awfully. He misses the sound of his breathing. Misses knowing that Harry can be reached for, just a few steps away from his own bed. Misses the way Harry sits up with him in the dark some nights, both nervous to say much of anything, fumbly and tired, but there.

Ron writes letters. He writes everything he would say to Harry if he were braver, if he could see in himself what the Sorting Hat saw, that is, if the hat didn’t just see another goddamned Weasley and toss him in with the lot for tradition’s sake.

In his letters, Ron tells Harry everything. About the control, or the lack of, and how it torments him. He writes about the loneliness, the guilt. He feels overshadowed and unwanted and so, so lost, and he writes that all down, getting it out. It almost helps, but not enough.

The letters sound like regular letters, in some regards. He frets over Harry’s well-being, worries Harry isn’t being treated well, is coping poorly with the Tournament. He asks about Harry’s nightmares, if they’re worse this year, after Cedric. He talks about the goings on at Headquarters, vents about the row Percy had with Dad just after last term.

In other aspects, the letters read like a diary or a love letter. He reflects fondly on quiet moments he’s had with Harry, on camaraderie and friendship and love. He even talks, for just a line or two here or there, about the food. The things Harry knows, or suspects, or should know, but hasn’t been told. Ink on parchment is more forgiving than even his best friend could ever be, so Ron admits that things have got out of hand, that he hates himself, that he still sometimes eats and eats until there’s nowhere left for it all to go but out. He writes of the panic and shame and when he’s out of words for how he feels, he takes the rolls of parchment and burns them. _Incendio._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, review of the last video game you played, and concerns all welcome


	4. Chapter 4

Fifteen is the hardest year Ron has ever had to face, but there’s a gnawing fear that sixteen will be no better. 

With each passing year the stakes seem to raise. What started as small insecurities, moments of worry, have erupted into a violent storm inside of Ron. 

He’s not the only one. He sees the strain in the muscles of Dad’s face. He notices an aura of desperation in Fred and George. Hermione’s regular speaking voice has taken on a tone of panic, seeming shriller than it was even when she spoke of expulsion. He cannot fathom how Harry is feeling.

Despite this, Ron feels more alone than ever. He haunts Headquarters in the same way Sirius does, sullen and withdrawn, only half there. They pass one another in the halls some nights without acknowledgement.

It is easier to lose track of people at Headquarters. The house is larger than the Burrow, and more chaotic. People are always coming and going in flurries and flourishes. There are rooms of the house kept dark and unused. Ron finds solace in his alone time hidden in abandoned bedrooms or closets. Kreacher stumbles upon him now and then, muttering about “blood traitors” and “filthy pests.”

 

One night, not long after a rushed dinner in the basement kitchen, Ron finds himself shut into what appears to have been a study. He summons a stale bit of bread he remembers having seen in the kitchen earlier that evening. His magic has been temperamental lately, but he managed to transfigure and engorge and multiply until he has created something of a feast for himself. He eats mechanically and without thinking, knowing distantly that the food he has charmed and transfigured does not taste as good as food his mother makes, this sort of magic has never been his strong suit, but it doesn’t matter. When he’s done, he cleans up after himself so no one might notice what he has done, and heads back to his bedroom.

On the landing, he runs into George, who remarks lightly that Ron is looking a little green, then turns a little green himself. 

“You alright?” George asks. 

Ron nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth all of a sudden. He feels sick. And disgusted. And shameful at having apparently been caught by his brother who is giving him such a knowing and concerned look. 

“Can I do anything?”

Ron shakes his head, feeling the tips of his ears burning bright red. Tears prick at his eyes and it feels like so long since he last cried that he decides maybe he’ll just let it happen. 

George puts an arm around Ron’s shoulders and Ron clings to him like a child, crying and hiccuping and the next thing Ron knows he’s knelt on the floor next to his bed puking into a bin that George must have summoned or conjured or carried in from another room. George’s hand is resting between Ron’s shoulder blades and he feels like he spends hours knelt there getting sick, but eventually it does end.

When he’s been quiet for a long time, save for the occasional sniffle, George sits back on the bed so his back rests against the wall. Ron is embarrassed, blushy and not making eye contact and hoping his brother will leave without breathing a word of this to anyone, but some part of him knows that George loves him and won’t just go.

“I don’t understand,” George says after a while.

There are no words to explain anything, and even if there were, Ron doesn’t understand it either, and they’d all come out all wrong, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak for fear he will just start crying again, so he stays silent.

“I don’t understand,” George pushes.

“I’m sorry.”

George shakes his head. “I’m not looking for an apology. I want to help, but I have no idea how, Ron. I don’t... it doesn’t make any sense, what you’re doing.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

Ron bristles a little. “It’s not on purpose.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Ron snaps. 

“Just relax, alright? I’m trying to figure this out.”

Ron drops his shoulders, daring to look at his brother for just a second before looking away again. “I’m sorry.”

George ignores this. “What do you mean you’re not doing it on purpose? It seems... sorta... intentional.”

“It’s not. Not really. I get sad, and eating makes me feel better, but I overdo it, and sometimes I get sick.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Hardly,” Ron scoffs. The silence eggs Ron on, making him feel that he has to defend himself. He’s not crazy, he’s just hungry. And sometimes, things just get a little out of hand. “I’m not making myself do it. I barely even notice I’m doing it, actually. It’s like a reflex or something. I dunno. But, I dunno. I’m sorry.” 

“Why does it happen?”

“I’m not sure. It just sorta started.”

“When?”

“Last year. After Harry got picked for the Tournament.”

George nods like he’s come to understand something he didn’t before. It annoys Ron, but he doesn’t comment. “Do Harry and Hermione know?”

Ron shakes his head.

“Don’t you think you should tell them?”

“Well, I mean, Harry knows. A little. He helps, sometimes. You know, stops me, if he can, or just stays with me.”

“Is that what you want me to do? Stay with you?”

The question makes Ron ache for Harry all over again.

“I’m okay.”

George nods again, looking older and wiser all of a sudden. “I’ll stay anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, in-depth thoughts on sexuality and gender, and concerns all welcome


	5. Chapter 5

After the Dementor attack, after the letter, and moving Harry in, and the yelling, Harry is lying on his bed in Ron’s room, finally there.

Angry, but there. His glasses are sitting on top of his folded clothes next to the bed. Ron has always liked that he gets to see Harry without his glasses on. There’s an intimacy to it, it makes Ron feel chosen, too. Like he matters. And he knows it was all just luck that got him into a situation where he gets to see The Boy Who Lived without his glasses on, it was just being at the right place at the right time, but alone together in their room at Headquarters, it feels less random, and more a decision.

“Harry?”

The silhouette of Harry rolls over in the dark, eyes alight with feline curiosity. 

“I’m sorry,” Ron says, hoping these words are enough. They don’t really talk, not like Ron talked in his letters. A lot of their communication is through shared understanding. And had the situation been reversed, Ron would not be feeling very sympathetic. Still, though, in the silence of their shared bedroom, he hopes his best friend can forgive him. 

“I know,” is all Harry offers, is as far as Ron deserves to be let off the hook. Ron nods and turns to face the wall. 

As Ron’s eyelids are growing heavy with sleep, Harry speaks again.

“Are you okay?”

But Ron doesn’t have the words to answer. It feels not his place to be not okay. He allows himself to fall asleep, leaving the question unanswered. 

 

Harry quickly falls into the routine of Headquarters. He warms back up to his friends, for which Ron is grateful and relieved. There are hours of serious conversation, catching Harry up on the goings-on of the war, the Order meetings, whatever he and Hermione know from lingering in doorways and using extendable ears. But also, there are moments of laughter and banter. Things feel okay. 

Mum tries to keep the three of them apart whenever possible. She keeps them busy with chores so they’re tired by nightfall. She watches Hermione head to bed with Ginny every night. Despite all this, they catch one another for stolen moments of conversation. Despite all this, Ron spends each night listening to the sound of Harry’s breathing. 

 

On the night before Harry’s hearing, Ron is dead tired and ready for sleep, but he can feel anxious energy coming off of Harry like a subtle vibration. He falls asleep only to wake up a few hours later when Harry begins pacing around their bedroom. 

“You need sleep, mate,” Ron says, knowing this will do nothing to help, might only irritate Harry further.

Harry throws him a withering look. “Distract me. I’m begging.”

Ron sits up in bed, his hair standing up on end. He can see his own shadow falling long and thin against the wall. “What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.”

Ron talks about Quidditch. He rambles on and on about offensive and defensive philosophies, politics within divisions, techniques he’s read about, the previous season of the Canons, even talks about the Harpies with what little information he has gleaned about their previous season from conversations with Ginny. 

“And, though Ginny says the sport shouldn’t be divided by gender, I mean, I can see her point. At Hogwarts the teams are co-ed, but I hear it’s not like that at other schools. Like Durmstrang has girl’s and boy’s teams, and anyway,” Ron says, trying to keep going, stifling yawns between topic changes. 

“Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“How was your summer?”

Ron looks down at his hands in his lap. “Better than yours, I reckon.”

Harry huffs a laugh. 

“I mean, not all rainbows and sunshine, but better. Perce was a real git with Dad. Like I said, I’d never seen him so angry. Always thought Mum was the scarier of the two, but Dad. When he goes off, it’s a sight to be seen.”

“That must’ve been hard. I know your family is close.”

Ron nods, still not looking up. “It’s got Mum rattled, for sure.”

“And you?”

“What about me,” Ron asks hesitantly. He wants to distract Harry, he does. After this summer, he wants to do whatever will make Harry settle a little. But not that. He doesn’t want to talk about what he knows Harry is leading him to.

“The, erm... Thing,” Harry says, eloquently. 

“I’m fine,” Ron snaps. 

Harry lifts his hands as though in surrender. “I don’t doubt it." 

“It’s been a long summer.”

“I know.”

They’re quiet for a long time. When Ron looks up, he sees Harry watching him, but holds his gaze. Harry nods and says, “Get some sleep. We’ll talk when this is over?”

“Okay. Try to get some rest.”

Harry walks back to his bed and lays down. What only feels like a few moments pass and Ron is waking up to find the sun up and Harry’s bed empty. He’s already left for the Ministry. And Ron didn’t even get the chance to wish him luck. 

 

“Cleared of all charges,” the twins are chanting, running around Headquarters like the Canons just won the World Cup. 

Everyone is celebrating wildly, finally letting go of the breath they had been holding. They drink and talk and Headquarters feels lighter than it’s ever been. 

Ron’s nervous, but doing a good job of hiding it. With the trial over, Ron worries Harry may turn around right in front of everyone with the notion of “We’ll talk when this is over” and start asking very private questions that Ron’s not sure he’d answer even if it was just the two of them. These fears are off base, as Harry would do nothing of the sort, but there’s a jitteriness to Ron throughout the night. 

But that night they go straight to sleep when back in their room. 

And the next night. 

And the next.

And there’s some part of Ron that is relieved.

And there’s another that feels rejected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, facts about penguins, and concerns all welcome
> 
> also, i swear i'll post the last chapter within the next few hours. i started posting it about 100 words shy of finishing it to motivate myself to stop hoarding this story in the notes on my phone like i have been for an embarrassingly long time now.


	6. Chapter 6

The arrival of the prefect badges causes more of a fuss than anyone had anticipated. After Mum’s little party, though, Ron is lying in bed thinking about what new broom he might want. Obviously nothing fancy, but new. New and only his. The thought leaves a smile on his face.

That is, until Harry wakes up from a nightmare.

He swears he can’t remember any of it, swears he’s fine, but his breath is still ragged and he’s still looking at Ron.

“Do you need anything,” Ron asks awkwardly.

Harry is quick to say, “I’m fine.”

“Alright, mate.”

Harry settles back down onto his pillow in a show of going back to sleep, but lays staring at the ceiling twiddling his thumbs. Ron watches him out of the corner of his eye, feeling tension rise in the room. Ron is so sure that Harry is trying to say something, is working up the nerve to talk about his nightmare, maybe, or speak frankly on what he endured at the Dursleys’ this summer.

Ron is not expecting what comes out of Harry’s mouth.

“Muggle schools, they aren’t like Hogwarts.”

“No,” Ron says cautiously. “I can’t imagine anywhere being like Hogwarts.”

Harry smiles for a moment before continuing. “In Muggle schools, they teach you very, very little about a million different things. Maybe Hogwarts was like that, once, but I don’t think it’s like that.”

“Not even Hagrid’s classes?”

“Well, actually, that’s sorta exactly what I mean.” Harry reaches over and grabs his glasses off the floor. They sit crookedly on his nose, like back when they were taped together, when Ron and Harry first met. “Rather than learning a great deal about how to properly care for a dragon, you learn the basics about all the magical creatures, right. But their maths and composition classes, you just do lots of little bits, and you can’t call yourself an expert, but you’re proficient, when it’s all over.”

“Okay.”

Harry falls silent for a little while. He holds his head propped up on one hand, body angled towards Ron, who thinks of Hagrid’s lessons. How animals won’t bare their soft stomachs to anyone they don’t trust. “I know a little bit about a lot of things. Some of it rather useless.”

“Uh-huh.”

Harry’s other arm lays in protection over his middle, almost hugging himself with discomfort. _He doesn't trust you. _“Some of it, though I thought it irrelevant at the time, comes up later, and I’m glad to know a little bit.”__

“Still don’t know where you’re headed with this.”

“Ron, I-” Harry starts, then falters. “Ron, I think you might be sick.”

Ron feels his stomach drop straight through the floor. “What do you mean, ‘sick’?”

“Well, it’s just that, well... You must know, don’t you? That the thing you do. With food, I mean. You must know that it’s not normal? I mean, right?”

This is as close to delicate as Harry’s ever going to manage, but it still makes Ron defensive.

“I mean, it’s not, not normal. It’s just, I mean, come on, it’s not even a big deal.”

Harry pulls his eyebrows together. The lines of concern wrinkle his forehead, deform his scar into something unrecognizable. “I think it’s gotten worse.”

Ron shakes his head. “No. The worst of it was when we were fighting last year. It’s loads better than that.”

“I can hear you, you know. When you sneak down to the kitchens at school. Or when you’re throwing up in the toilet down the hall.”

The words, spoken with such honesty and clarity, leave Ron flinching, but Harry doesn’t let up.

“I can smell it on you, sometimes. Or toothpaste, when you have a chance to try to cover it. And it’s so hard to keep you listening and talking during meal times. And you get these little, tiny bruises in your face sometimes. And you shiver in your sleep even now, in August.”

Ron sets his jaw, muscle jumping along his cheek.

“I know you’re not happy. You allude to it, sometimes. Like it’s a joke, like it’s funny, how little you think of yourself. And I want to get angry and yell at you for treating my best friend so poorly, but, I mean, that’s not really how this works, is it?”

Something about Harry’s words feels practiced, rehearsed. Like he stood before a mirror and ran lines.

Harry breathes out, long and slow. “I don’t like admitting this, but, there are some nights I hear you get up, and I just, I’m too tired to go after you, to stop you. I’m exhausted and it’s just too much. But, Ron?”

Air moves raggedly through Ron’s nose. His cheeks are flushed red and his fingernails dig into his palms.

“You must be tired, too. Aren’t you tired?”

Ron nods. He doesn’t cry. He feels like maybe it would be okay, if he chose this moment to cry, but it doesn’t come. Feeling anything but prickling shame feels far away, like he locked it all up somewhere inside him.

Harry seems to understand he won’t be getting any more than a nod out of Ron. He says, with a note of finality to it, “There are people who love you, Ron. We want to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, description of your favorite pair of socks, and concerns all welcome
> 
> p.s. added more chapters because i wanted to feature hermione more than i have. expect delays. this has been traffic.


	7. Chapter 7

It takes until about mid-term for that night to amount to anything. Harry's words are swarming under Ron's skin for the final weeks at Headquarters, but then it's September first. And then it's Umbridge's speech and Quidditch tryouts and homework and detention and Educational Decrees and Hagrid's return. And, like most things to do with Ron, it just seems to have been forgotten. 

 

It's a quiet night by the fire for Ron, Hermione, and Harry. Stress levels are high among all in the school, which has lead to fewer late nights for the other students of Gryffindor House. Christmas is approaching, but in a way that feels more like a dream. The three find themselves alone in the armchairs, warmed by the fire tended to by House Elves who scurry past without being seen as more than a shadow, an apparition, almost ghosts more than Nearly-Headless Nick. Hermione still knits lumpy hats and socks when she has the time, liking the muggle way of counting stitches to put her mind at ease. 

Tonight, though, there are scrolls of abandoned essays on the tables and floors. Hermione has laid down her quill for the evening. The moon is hung high in the sky, nearing midnight. 

And then Harry does something most unusual. 

"I'm gonna turn in for the night," he says, despite seeming wired and alert. He's yet to yawn even once, but he says to his friends, "But don't let me interrupt. I'll just be off to bed."

He stands, stretches exaggeratedly, and gathers his things. Harry is careful not to look at Ron, but he shares fleeting glances with Hermione a few times before his eventual departure. She looks back at him passively, no hint of the same panic that is evident on Harry's face. 

Ron's almost nervous to be alone with Hermione these days. For the first time since he asked her "Are you a witch, or not?" in their first year, Ron's started to notice that Hermione is, in fact, a witch. A girl. A woman, though such a word feels far off and foreign. 

He's rarely without Harry as a buffer, hasn't even told Harry of these feelings--the way something as simple as her robes rolled back from her wrists while she writes makes Ron's ears redden, or how he wants to tuck her hair behind her ear when she's leaned over a cauldron and impatiently shoving curls out of her eyes just to have them fall right back into place. He's never mentioned anything of the sort. Not outright, anyway, though there's many things that Ron has opted not to tell his best friend. He doesn't remember becoming a Secret Keeper for himself, can't remember feeling like anything he could have to say might be worth saying. It's all gotten a little lost. 

"Are you alright," Hermione asks as Ron ponders such things. 

"I'm great."

"You're looking a little grey, are you sure you're alright? Are you cold?"

Before she even gives Ron a chance to answer, she stands from her armchair and moves in closer to the fire with a blanket. She settles with her back against a coffee table and holds up the end of the blanket that's not draped across her lap. Ron stands slowly, feeling like breathing the wrong way could spook Hermione, or more likely, spook himself. 

He joins her on the floor, under the same blanket. They are angled towards one another but not facing, instead, stealing occasional glances to watch shadows trick against one another's profiles. 

They sit together for a long while. 

Hermione never seems on the edge of asking anything. Her silence is not the demanding drumroll of Harry's little talks. Whatever pressure may have been there at the start has been eased. She watches the fire, her body relaxed, almost leaning into Ron's side. She doesn't fidget or mouth words she's practiced saying to him. She is quiet. Patient. 

And, in the open silence, Ron begins to speak.

 

"I feel like you're the last person I should be telling any of this to," he admits. 

"Why's that?"

"Hermione, you're practically perfect. And, merlin knows, smart enough to see how stupid I'm being." _And you make my heart race even when you just ask me about Charms, let alone something like this. ___

__"Are you embarrassed?"_ _

__He looks over at her for a second. She's so close to the truth, though nothing's been expressly said. She knows more than she lets on, maybe even understands. Harry certainly doesn't. He talks about how lost and frustrated he feels, sometimes. Both in reference to Ron and otherwise._ _

__"Embarrassed is not quite right, but yes," he admits._ _

__"Shame, then?"_ _

__"What's that feel like?"_ _

____

__Hermione smiles sadly. "It's something that can't always be helped, you know?" She turns and takes his hand. Her eyes stay on their entwined fingers while she speaks. "Like, someone says something, maybe not even in reference to you, something like 'mudblood,' and you think you might be sick from hating how your own body, your own blood, betrays you. Like, maybe some wires got crossed and there's just something fundamentally _wrong _about you and you'd do anything to scratch it out from under your skin, do anything to prove your fine, more than fine, that you're perfect. And being seen as anything but is devastating. It makes you feel transparent, even when you're alone and hiding."___ _

_____ _

Ron realizes that he's been nodding for almost as long as she's been speaking. "So, it's normal, then?" 

_____ _

"It is normal. It's excruciating, but normal. And you're not the only one who feels that way. You're not alone, Ron." 

_____ _

Her eyes dart up when she says his name. They look at one another, maybe almost into one another, for a moment before she rests her head against his shoulder, her thumb working circles across the back of his hand. She is so warm. And he feels tired, for all the feelings he has swirling inside him, and for the thought that she might feel the same, must feel the same, if she was able to describe it. 

_____ _

"Hermione?" 

_____ _

She hums a "hmm?" 

_____ _

"There must be magic that can fix it. Something to make it go away, or feel less. Isn't there?" 

_____ _

"There are spells, yes. Spells that might lessen pain." 

_____ _

Less pain? Ron feels himself perk up with hope, hope that this can all be over. Hermione's wand pointed to his chest, mending everything wrong and bad inside of him. He trusts her to do it; trusts her to fix him. 

_____ _

"But, it's not an advantage, not to feel. One of my very favorite things about you is your empathy. Sometimes Harry can't see passed the end of his nose, but you? You can take everything that you've ever experienced and translate it to help people. You saw Harry alone in a train compartment and had siblings and reputation and status you could have used to sit somewhere else, be someone else, but you didn't. You'd felt alone and weird before, and you reached out to a stranger." 

_____ _

"I don't understand." 

_____ _

"You found a little Know-It-All, and although you teased her at first, you protected her, involved her, confided in her, trusted her. I was born an outcast in this world, but you didn't see that, you saw a friend. You'd felt what feeling ordinary could do to a person, and you've made me feel extraordinary. 

_____ _

"You can't have one without the other," she continues. "You can't be loyal and loving and compassionate without being able to feel for another's pain. There is no numbing the bad and getting to keep the good." 

_____ _

"You've thought a lot about this." 

_____ _

"I've thought a lot about a lot of things," she says, as if she's buying herself time. She breathes a little deeper before going on. "There are books I've been reading, magic and muggle, about what you're dealing with. There are words for what you're doing and feeling. I can teach you, if they make you feel less alone? Or I can keep reading, if it makes you feel seen and cared for. Because you are all of those things." 

_____ _

They've not really said, specifically, about what it is Ron is doing. And, yet, this feels closer to "talking about it" than Ron has ever felt. The thing itself is not on the table, but the repercussions, the emotions, the loneliness of it are being addressed. Even though Hermione has done much of the talking, he feels safer, more in control, less exposed. They're not dancing on raw nerves, they're just talking. 

_____ _

"I do have a suggestion, though. Harry, thick though he may be sometimes, is far more in-tune with feelings than I am. If you need help more immediately, Harry is the stronger option. I'd need time to analyze and read and think. I can take on the bigger pictures of it, but use us. Harry and I want to be there for you, not just in matters of over-due assignments and Quidditch practice. We both love you, very much." (Ron feels his face heat. He knows how she means it, or, he thinks he does, but still, the word "love" being given to him by Hermione feels so natural, like nothing else could have come of this. Like their friendship was always leading to this.) "And we want to help, if you find you need it." 

_____ _

There's a brief silence in which they are both looking at their entangled hands. There feels nothing more to say, so Ron ends the conversation, for now, by thanking her. She nods, not distractedly, but definitely a little lost in thought. They sit there only a moment longer, before standing. Hermione hesitates on the idea of hugging him, until he throws his arms around her. She catches the scent of his hair, while they stand so close. Then, they gather their things and go to their respective dorms. 

_____ _

___Ron is certain Harry will be waiting up for him. Maybe pretending to sleep, but still waiting. When he enters his room, though, Harry is asleep with his bed curtains thrown open, like he'd meant to stay up, but sleep dragged him down. Ron takes Harry's glasses and sets them on the bedside table before getting into his own bed, feeling a little lighter._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, just hit paste in a comment and show me what you last copied, and concerns all welcome


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